To Touch Brilliance
by Neftzer
Summary: Immortal pianist Claudia Jardine is in Paris, a hefty security force in tow for the European leg of her world tour. Will it be enough to protect her from what may or may not be waiting in the shadows? Amanda, Nick Wolfe, Bert Myers & Claudia star.
1. Part I. Molto lento

**To Touch Brilliance:** three movements in the key of B. Myers  
_in which the Raven finds a Player in her nest,  
and the Wolfe smells treble._

**Part I: _molto lento_**

Claudia Jardine was tired. _Tired, tired, tired,_ she said to herself in decrescendoing whole notes. Her exhaustion was complete and left her struggling to sit upright in the limousine as it pulled away from her hasty exit of the night's concert venue. 

The evening had been less than stellar, and though she was loathe to blame her own performance aloud (indicting instead the acoustics, conductor and instrument she had been given to play) she knew the responsibility lay within herself. She had been distant--depressed even--this entire leg of the tour, ever since that night at Albert Hall. 

She sighed. Albert Hall--since then, everything she came into contact with—instruments, people, her own thoughts--played in a minor key. She felt dissonant, flat, and unable to be pleased by anybody or anything. It was a common enough occurrence in her life, but lately the feeling had begun to leave her unsettled. Perhaps she had spent too long as the diva. Again, she sighed and briefly entertained the idea of allowing herself to fall asleep and onto the nearby shoulder of her for-the-night bodyguard. 

Thinking of the bodyguard, though, revived her earlier discordant mood with a vengeance. She made an effort to come around again, and addressed the man who sat opposite, his receding hairline and small build belying (she hoped) his expert ability at delivering the level of security that she paid him so handsomely to do. 

"Bert," said the woman the French adoringly called _La Jardine_, edginess creeping into her voice. An edge that carried over the small TV that had been playing the evening news, the surrounding whine of walkie-talkies and other surveillance equipment littering the compartment. "The one you sent tonight to stand in the wings will never do. I want someone else immediately." 

Ready as always for another barrage of inadequacies in his execution of the temperamental star's safekeeping, Bert Myers' face broke into a comforting smile. "Mademoiselle," he coaxed. "Ms. Jardine." He spread his hands expansively. "Claudia." 

She crossed her arms in response to the familiar chorus of placating. 

Seeing this, he regrouped and addressed the man seated next to Claudia. "Gordo," he ordered, "swap me seats here." 

The larger man lumbered across the floor to the facing seating, freeing his space for Bert to take, which Bert did, addressing Claudia's demand. "Nick Wolfe is one of my best men," he offered solicitously. "He runs the European end of the firm." 

_At least he **did**,_ thought Myers to himself. 

"I was really hoping that the two of you might hit it off." He had to strain to keep his voice from showing the grimness he felt. It was after two in the a.m., and the third confrontation with Claudia over security matters in as many days. 

"He doesn't believe me," Claudia pouted, her prior haughtiness erased in the wake of wounded ego. 

"Claudia," Bert put his arm around the back of the seat, slipping seamlessly into the by-now-familiar role of comforter. 

"No," she was firm, arms still crossed. "He thinks I'm just some prima donna with a persecution complex using all this--" she gestured to the interior of the limo, its littered equipment, bullet-proof windows, "--as a bid for attention." She snuffled her nose, which in her frustration and earnestness had begun to run--a precursor to tears. 

"What makes you say that?" Bert begged to know. "The two of you hardly were even in the same room together all night." He did not want to have to put Nick on another job. He had been hoping to hand security for the French leg of Claudia's tour over to his partner as soon as possible. _What had the mercurial Mr. Wolfe gone and done now?_

"He asked too many questions." Claudia recalled the brief grilling the intense, leather-jacketed brunet had put her through only moments before she was slated to perform. "Too many questions that I've already answered again and again." 

"I'll talk to him," Bert promised, his voice dropping sympathetically, his mind jumping ahead, trying to decide on the best tone with which to upbraid Nick, yet leave the other man willing to stay on the job. Decades of subtlety in finessing covert international operations had prepared Bert Myers for dealing with clients like Claudia Jardine, as brittle and dangerous in her personal relationships as she was in her passion and abandon for music--but Nick Wolfe, clinging to some inner code, motivated (for the most part) outside of what he could gain from the world around him? Well, that called for a different type of diplomacy. 

"I'm not _making_ it up," Claudia said with deep resolve, bringing Bert's mind back to the situation at hand. "Someone is trying to kill me." She yawned before she could stop herself. "Ever since I played London and Albert Hall." 

"I know, I know," Bert crooned, seeing from the yawn that she would be nodding off in moments, her concentration and her anger spent. 

"Promise me you won't let them get their hands on me, Bert. Promise?" Claudia looked up at him with a pair of eyes that he had always found difficult to resist, her voice in tune with that of a sleepy child, close to dreamland, asking something of their father that they won't recall the next morning. 

"No," Myers answered. It was an easy promise to make. "Never." 

His hand slowly guided her head to his shoulder, where she could stay until they reached the hotel, and where, while she slept, he could concentrate on how to manage Nick Wolfe, and not Claudia Jardine, for a change.

_...to be continued..._

DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc. Thanks. Feedback is cherished. 


	2. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

When the limo finally pulled into the circular drive fronting the posh hotel at which Claudia (against his counsel) had insisted on staying, Bert Myers exited the back of the car as quietly as possible to avoid waking his charge until he and the team had secured the area. Stepping away from the vehicle, his trained eyes scouring the perimeter, he tuned his left ear to his com unit. 

"Wolfe. And now," he demanded into his mike. 

"Miss me that much?" he heard Nick say, on his way over from the secondary transportation in Claudia's escort. 

The tone of Wolfe's voice was enough to alert Myers to the fact that his associate clearly didn't realize he had done anything wrong. When Bert turned his head to look his friend in the eye, he knew Wolfe would have that old teasing expression on his face, his eyebrows lifted, his mouth pursed in humor. Nick Wolfe had been in such a steady, predictable mood with the troublesome Amanda Montrose out of town. It had originally startled Myers to have his old even-keeled friend back in his life. He had to remind himself that this was who Nick used to always be--not the at-times evasive, oft-angst-ridden, information-withholding person that he had tended toward becoming over the past six months. 

"Nicky-boy," Bert began, diving right into the problem, but affecting a humorous tact, eyebrows raised, hands open in question. "Is there some reason you want to give me grief? Something you want to tell me about that I've done to hurt you? Some feminina whose eye I happened to catch that left you jealous? Huh?" He slipped an arm around Nick's shoulders. "Or maybe it's just that with Amanda gone, you feel the need to take up the slack in the 'deviling me' department?" He cocked his eyebrow. "'Cause really, trust me, I was enjoying that vacation." 

Nick opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Closing his mouth, he smiled instead. 

It was clear to Bert that he was not aware of _La Jardine_'s ruffled feathers. 

"Exactly what are we talking about here, Mr. Myers?" 

Bert smiled back. "We're talking about the job you did tonight at public relations, Mr. Wolfe, and evaluating your performance with a very low score in light of the fact that I've got to be in Juneau in three days and I had put all of my pretty, fragile, little eggs named _Claudia Jardine, superstar_ into a basket labeled; _Nick Wolfe, trustworthy successor_." 

"Oh," began Nick, clearly having connected the lecture with his earlier performance back at the hall. 

"So, tell me," Myers, still all smiles, continued. "Do I need to re-label my basket, or can I count on you to play for the team?" 

"You don't really believe that someone's--" 

"Ah-ah-ah," Myers threw his hands up in a gesture to ward off further comment. "Affirmative answers only." 

Nick exhaled hard, and his hands went for his hips. 

Myers began to wonder if he had mis-stepped in his rebuffing of Nick, but was distracted when his radio crackled to life. 

"Bravo One, calling the all clear, moving on your mark." 

"Roger that," Myers replied to the com unit, and finished up with Nick. "I'll be waiting for your answer." 

Nick did not respond. 

Myers tried on his best hang-dog expression, sloughing some of the blame off on Claudia's temperament. "Look, before I open this door I need you gone. She's had quite as much Nick Wolfe as she can take for the night, I think." Feeling his last comments might have been unnecessarily harsh, Bert ended on a more congenial note, putting his hand out to his friend. "I'll be by the bar in an hour. We can have a drink. You can tell me everything. We'll work it out." 

Nick's expression relaxed somewhat, and he took the hand he was offered. "What, you haven't had enough of me yet?" 

"Bring it on," responded Myers, smiling and moving to the car door. 

Before he could get to the handle to open it, wake Claudia, and escort her into the hotel for the night, the rear door burst open, slamming heavily into his stomach and torso. He hadn't even caught his wind when he heard Claudia speak in a broad stage whisper from the back seat. 

"He's here, Bert. He's here. He knows I'm staying here." 

Trying to speak, but winded from the unexpected blow, Myers managed only a cough and wheeze as he held his midsection. 

"We've got to go. RIGHT NOW." 

"Claudia--" he was finally able to manage, crawling into the back seat and shutting the door behind him. A moment's glace showed him there would be no smoothing over this fear, so he took charge. 

"Gordo," he told the other man sharing the space. "Go. See what it is--if he's here, I want to see him. I want pictures, I want video, stats, positive ID. I want a color-coded map of his friggin' genome. You got that?" 

Gordon nodded and exited the car from the other side. 

Myers spoke some quick orders into his com unit, aware that with Claudia clinging to him he wasn't going to be able to leave the car and search for the stalker himself without permanently alienating his client. "Where did you see him?" he asked her, noting a stabbing pain in his side whenever he drew breath. 

_Damn him if she hadn't cracked one of his ribs with the door!_

She shook her head, refusing to answer, only repeating, "he's here. I swear it. He's coming for me." A flash of inspiration shot across her face. "Gimme a phone." 

Perplexed, Myers grabbed one of the many units littering the car. "Who do you want to call?" 

"I--just--hang on," she said, and as he noticed her calm returning, he directed the driver to go. While she dialed information in Seacouver and asked for the number of a dojo, Myers communicated to his men who had just finished re-scouting the area. They had found nothing. It was what he had expected. After all, his team didn't even have a physical description on the guy. They were running blind, uncertain of what to look for in a city full of fans and critics--all of whom wanted to get close to Claudia. It was an impossible, undoable job. No matter the weather, Juneau would be a more than welcome change. 

"Hello, hello? DeSalvo's Gym?" he heard her saying into the phone. "Yes, I know our connection is bad, I'm not totally deaf, am I?" The edge that Myers had come to know as Claudia had crept back into her voice. He almost smiled for the sake of the poor S.O.B. trapped on the other end. 

"Is Duncan there? I need to talk to Duncan." A pause. "What do you mean he's gone on holiday? Well, if I had a number where I knew I could reach him, don't you think I would have called that? No, I don't want to leave a message. Pissant!" And she keyed the phone off, lobbing it hatefully into the tempered glass behind the chauffeur's headrest. The glass held. 

Retrieving the phone, Myers found he was more than ready to return Claudia to her twice-secured lodgings for the night. 

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc. Thanks. Feedback is cherished. 


	3. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

Bert Myers leaned hard into Sanctuary's front door buzzer for the third time. He had told Nick an hour, so what if it had been two? Was that any reason to go locking him out? He buzzed again, holding the button down until the small brass speaker below it popped on. 

"Boss? You're back already?" asked a sleepy voice that was not Nick's. 

Peeved, Myers threw a glance over his shoulder to Claudia, bored and shuffling her feet behind him. "Tell me, de Vergesse, exactly _why_ is my key no longer good at the front door of my own establishment?" 

"Oh! Monsieur Myers," came Pascal's distorted voice out into the early Paris dawn. "The boss didn't like the original door, after all. So, _voila_, new door, new locks. I will be right up." 

Only moments later, when Pascal arrived at the entrance, he was surprised to see Mr. Myers was not alone. Not that Pascal didn't think Mr. Myers a handsome-enough man, only he had not been exposed to the more social side of his second boss outside of the security firm and its operations. Bringing attractive women to the bar just before dawn was of course permissible, only out of the ordinary. 

She was lovely enough, though mostly hidden from view in the cape-like wrap she was wearing. His mind did not stop on her for too long, though. Pascal de Vergesse was still getting past the disappointment over the fact that the bell ringer had not, in fact, been the Boss, who in his opinion had been gone far too long for his own comfort and amusement. Things, he was quite sure, would only feel right again with her eventual return. 

In the time it had taken Pascal to climb the flight of stairs up from his basement apartment, Myers' frustration had not abated. "Where the hell is the doorman?" He balked for a moment before recalling the name. "Gerard. Where the hell is Gerard? Or did Amanda exchange him as well?" 

Motioning the couple inside, and directing the woman at her request to the WC, Pascal mused briefly on what would be an appropriate response to Mr. Myers' question. Gerard the doorman, constant thorn in his bartender's side, a man so incompetent it was nothing short of a miracle that he could remember to pick up a paycheck each week. Even so, there was no reason that Gerard the doorman should have been at the door in the pre-dawn. The club had been closed for several hours, and Gerard had left for wherever or whomever he spent time with when he was not throwing wrenches into Pascal's finely-tuned orchestration of Sanctuary. 

Be as that may, the bartender knew that now was not the time to unburden himself on Mr. Myers vis-à-vis Gerard. Myers was clearly tense on several other (no doubt more pressing) life-and-death accounts, so instead of responding, Pascal settled on an inconclusive shrug. Gerard's serial ineptitude could not go unnoticed forever. _I will die first_, he consoled himself. 

Myers moved confidently ahead of the bartender through the many entry rooms and curtained-off passages that comprised Sanctuary's first floor, after one last turn, finally striding across a large relatively open room with a cathedral ceiling to the bar. He glanced behind to see if Pascal were, as he hoped, following. "Over-night guest downstairs?" he asked, his voice sounding of stress and exhaustion. 

Pascal shook his head in the negative. 

"Make me a drink?" Myers withdrew a franc note much too large to pay for a single drink, and held it in his fingers, pointing it at Pascal to take. 

Pascal waived the money away. After all, he was already up. "What would you like?" 

"Couple of fingers of vodka--whatever you've got, I'm not feeling too choosy. And a doctor that'll make house calls--before breakfast." 

Pascal poured the vodka with one hand while he dialed the bar phone with the other. It was turning into another remarkable night. Inwardly he sighed, verging on contentment, and held back a smile. He liked his life. In front of him Myers had buried his forehead in his hands, still keeping one eye on the glass being filled. 

"And ring Wolfe's room," his superior added. "Tell him to get down here." 

It was not every night a man like Mr. Myers—a man whose life brimmed with espionage and derring-do--showed up needing his assistance, with a striking female under his protection. It was not every night Pascal found himself at five a.m. pouring strong drinks for people who interested him. It was not every night--at least not since the boss had been out of town. _Yes,_ he nodded inwardly, _he liked his life_.

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
It has been brought to my attention that I have not placed this fic within a timeline. Very well, it occurs after _Highlander The Raven_'s episode The French Connection, where Nick gets shot and action is moved to Paris, but before Love and Death, when Bert Myers (though he chooses not to believe it) learns about immortality from Amanda.  
In _Highlander: The Series_' last season episode Indiscretions, Joe tells Methos that Duncan is in London with Claudia Jardine, who is playing Albert Hall.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at Seventh Dimension and The Raven's Nest.  
Feedback is cherished. 


	4. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

Claudia pushed through the door to exit the opulent ladies washroom, and promptly lost herself in the tunnel-like curtained halls of Sanctuary. Every time she was positive that she had turned the correct direction to get back to the entryway--the last place she had seen Bert--she found herself in some other chamber or anteroom, of which there seemed an endless supply. Every one was beautifully appointed, often with gaming tables, and several with giant, ornate mantles and fireplaces. 

She was almost tired enough from both fear and exhaustion to abandon finding Bert and instead curl up on the floor, or any of what must be a hundred couches she had seen, and spend the rest of her night so. Almost. Settling on a plan, she grabbed each purple curtain's golden cord as she walked, tying them back as she passed, checking into the room beyond. Eventually she found herself back at the washroom, and three curtains past that in the maze of purple and lilac velvet, the bar appeared, where she found Bert and the man who had answered the door. Myers having a drink, the other man talking on the phone. Bert stood from his stool when he saw her, a slight wince flickering across his face at the movement. She wondered if it were in response to her. 

"Claudia," he said pleasantly, in a tone that did nothing to show the fact that he had been awake going on nearly twenty-two hours now. 

She admired that in him. The ability to cover, or perhaps, the ability that even within himself he didn't notice, hadn't counted the hours as she had, on imaginary fingers, as she played tonight. If there was a shot you could take, or a motivational tape you could listen to and gain that skill--well, she'd be interested. Until then, she'd just have to depend upon Bert. 

"Let's get you to bed," he offered, extending an arm in the direction of a turn-of-the-century brass-gated elevator. 

As they rode the lift up, he teased her a little. "What's the deal, Claudia?" he began. "You haven't once asked me if this location is secure." A small smile tugged at his lips. 

"I don't care," she told him, and shook her head. "I'm too tired right now. Besides, he didn't follow us." 

"You going to want to call your friend again?" 

_What was he talking about?_ "Who?" 

"The guy you tried to get earlier? In the limo?" 

"No," she looked down at her feet, thinking of Duncan and wondering what she had thought he could do about her predicament. Not much, save adding a coda of _I told you so_. She wondered what she had been expecting to happen had he been home--that he'd catch the next plane? Take over her personal security from Bert's firm? All the conclusions she could draw from that scenario seemed fleeting fixes at best, not to mention awkwardly involving a statement of error on her part. "He's gone away," she told Bert. Her voice lowered. "Besides, I've made my own bed." 

"What's that?" 

"Nothing. Um, just a few years ago I told someone how I needed things--things in my life--to be, and now--" 

"You've changed your mind?" It almost startled him that he, Bert Myers, was having a mildly introspective conversation with Claudia. 

"I never _change_ my mind." 

The rock-hard tenor of her declaration snapped _Bert's_ mind back like a tight bungee cord to The Nick Problem. "Right," he agreed briskly, as the elevator stopped on the floor that had the offices of the firm, and a couch that he had thought would do for Claudia.

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
It has been brought to my attention that I have not placed this fic within a timeline. Very well, it occurs after _Highlander The Raven_'s episode The French Connection, where Nick gets shot and action is moved to Paris, but before Love and Death, when Bert Myers (though he chooses not to believe it) learns about immortality from Amanda.  
In _Highlander: The Series_' last season episode Indiscretions, Joe tells Methos that Duncan is in London with Claudia Jardine, who is playing Albert Hall.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at Seventh Dimension and The Raven's Nest.  
Feedback is cherished. 


	5. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

He had been wrong. 

Claudia stood in his darkly paneled office and stared at the very stiff and very formal-looking cordwain leather divan that Myers was offering to her for the night. If she had been more chipper she might have laughed hysterically, haughtily. Instead, she skipped past any semblance of amusement, looked pointedly from Myers to the divan, walked out of the room, and re-boarded the elevator without a word. 

Bert had to double-time to get to the lift before she pulled the brass gate closed, and he felt every footfall echo in his injured side--the vodka fix hadn't worked for long. As she grasped the lever to engage the lifting mechanism and they began to move, Myers didn't bother to ask for an explanation of her behavior. After all, it was his own fault for having forgotten Rule Number One in the care and protection of Claudia Jardine: _if it's good enough for the rest of the world, it holds no interest for me._

He, himself, had spent more than a few nights comfortably enough on that divan. It beat the hell out of the floor, or even his desk--why in the old days--but then, he knew better than to pretend that Claudia Jardine was the kind of woman you could throw an old shirt and a few blankets to (maybe add your toothbrush for hospitality's sake), and still expect things to come out smelling like roses. Claudia had made her life about caviar and the Sultan of Brunei, Waterford and the Lincoln Bedroom, Harrod's and Rolls Royce--not Hanes Her Way and, 'have a beer.' 

He thought about apologizing. Bert weighed in his head the potential benefit of an offered apology versus the perceived deficit should he do so, and it simply empower Claudia to open a floodgate of vocal criticism. He ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth, deciding. Claudia hadn't brought it up yet. Very well, he would let it lie. 

"Now," Claudia began, as though the last few moments had not even occurred. "What's on the other floors?" 

Bert knew Amanda was out of town. Originally his only desire in bringing Claudia to Sanctuary (beyond appeasing her new fear of her own lodgings) had been to keep her well clear of Nick's apartment until he could talk with the old boy. So he instinctively steered her down the hall, away from Nick's rooms, planning to show her an old storage closet he thought he remembered, and explain that this floor was used for nothing more than storing old and musty half-forgotten things--Mardi Gras decorations and the like. 

He hadn't known that Amanda Montrose (or indeed Amanda Darrieux, or Amanda Le Fauve) didn't trouble her own life with locks, or that when, returning the club's original front door, she had also replaced her own apartment door with something much too elaborate to be explained away as that of a simple storage closet's entrance. 

By the time Claudia was sweeping into the devastatingly cosmopolitan flat beyond that door, he was left with one hope only: that Amanda would have a guest room Claudia would find suitable. 

She didn't. 

Bert Myers hadn't seen the interior of Amanda's rooms since she had moved in (naturally she _had_ called upon him and several of his men to help with transporting some of the heavier pieces of furniture she had seen fit to acquire). In the interim she had done some pretty sophisticated things with the space. Large windows lent an air of light, which she had complemented with more than a few exotic pieces of furniture and rugs in the great room. 

Additionally, there were two other rooms of note: one decked out as an attractive spare bedroom, with a bedstead larger than some folks' homes, laden with carvings as though it had been the last piece of wood on earth at a whittler's convention; the other was set up as a small library/office, but was too neatly kept to lead him to believe that it got much use--either that or she was having someone come in to clean. The last room he went into—-the one where he found Claudia—-was the master (or should he say mistress?) bedroom. 

It defied description. It looked (and he winced more than a bit at Amanda's blasphemy, though he was not by nature a religious man) like a cathedral. He nearly felt the need to look quickly around himself and check for backpacking tourists milling about quietly, consulting their Baedekers and snapping photos of the marble statuary, muralled ceiling, and frieze work. 

"Goodness, Bert." Even the usually blasé, jaded Claudia responded in a spirit of awe. "Is this where you keep your mistress? Her hand swept over the glossy top of a bedside table as though she owned it. "And if so, where is she now?" 

"Claudia, are you certain--?" he began, knowing that he shouldn't be going to let her do _exactly_ what he knew that he was going to let her do. 

"Quite," she answered. "This is just right." 

Whatever had been fluttering at the top of Bert's stomach fell dully to its bottom. 

"I'm sure she won't mind if I borrow something of hers--after a bath, of course." 

She spoke as though she knew Amanda well enough to predict how the other woman would feel about such things. Bert speculated. Perhaps such conjecture, along with her unearned sense of entitlement, helped Claudia gloss over the fact that she was about to gate-crash into a stranger's bed. 

Bert thought about opening his mouth to protest, but gave in, ignoring the warning of his gut. Her reaction caught him off guard. He hadn't heard Claudia sound this pleased about anything in recent memory. What harm could there be? Amanda wasn't coming back _this_ morning. 

"Just--take whatever you need," he offered, swallowing down on the fact that it wasn't his to dispense with. "I'll be at the bar." He pointed out the intra-Sanctuary line (the familiar, heavy gilt, turn-of-the-century phone was easy enough to pick out). "Ring 801." 

"You're going to come back up." 

Claudia's back was to him and she did not turn around, but it was not a question. 

"Right, of course. Sure. Give me half an hour. After that, I'm posted outside your door." "Outside the _bedroom_ door," she instructed. "On the chaise, in the dressing room." 

_With the lead pipe,_ he thought grimly, feeling the heat of pain play across his busted rib in response to the mention of the tightly stuffed, button-upholstered chaise they had passed on their way in to Amanda's _sanctum sanctorum_. Keeping the pain to himself, he assured his client with a lie, "My thoughts, exactly." 

As Claudia flicked unselfconsciously through Amanda's sumptuous closet and drawers for something to wear to bed, Bert stomped down the hall to the giant bathroom that Nick and Amanda shared, rooting around for some painkiller. _No dice_. The medicine cabinet, while well stocked with any and every other thing he could imagine needing (toothpastes and powders, mouthwashes foreign and domestic, floss--waxed and unwaxed--lotions, tweezers, and Nick's septic pencil), was bone dry when it came to things pain-related. No Advil, Aspirin, Tylenol, Goodey's Headache Powders, Icy Hot. _Nada_. 

_What did these two jokers do when they got a migraine? Order out?_

It particularly surprised him that Amanda had nothing lying around. He had pegged her for the high-maintenance-type dame with a permanent Valium prescription. Could he have been wrong? 

Bert was careful, as he had been trained so long ago before Bert Myers' identity had been even a gleam in his eye, to replace everything he touched flawlessly back into the spot from which he had taken it. A final attempt to locate something had his hand in the drawers of Amanda's cosmetics department-stocked vanity--still nothing. And then it clicked in his head that just as he had found no analgesics, neither had he found anything prophylactic in nature. He hoped to goodness they were keeping them somewhere--that the two of them were being safe. 

It was an unsettling thought, Nick and Amanda together (it didn't matter to him that they denied it, each in turn--he had eyes, and a man like Nick didn't up and cross an ocean, throw his well-regimented life into guaranteed chaos to kill a guy--a guy like Korda--to avenge (however mistakenly) a woman he only sort of, "knows"). On that note, he gave up his search, concluding that they must have some other spot in which they preferred to house such things--Nick's bedside table, perhaps. And he had no time to go ransack Wolfe's flat just now. 

In defeat, Bert pulled the lift's grate closed on the sounds of Claudia drawing a hot bath, glanced quickly at his watch, and thought that it would be a piece of unexpected luck if both Nick _and_ the good doctor had managed to appear by the time he descended to the bar.

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at Seventh Dimension and The Raven's Nest.  
Feedback is cherished. 


	6. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

Bert was at least half-satisfied. Though the doctor had yet to arrive, Nick was leaning on the bar, wearing the boxer shorts and athletic grey t-shirt that usually comprised the sleepwear uniform of any American fraternity. To complete that image, he lacked only a backwards baseball cap and a can of beer--not the lead crystal glass from which he now drank. Myers looked from Nick to Pascal--who, in the scant moments _he_ had delayed coming to answer the door earlier, had faultlessly attired himself. Myers looked back at Nick, who grinned at him in that blissfully ignorant way of his. 

Bert threw one hand up onto the bar to help himself climb on a stool, but the action proved counter to comfort where his ribs were concerned, so he retracted the arm, and eased himself down onto a neighboring sofa instead. "Can't you put something on?" he told more than asked Nick, perhaps more irritably than he had intended. 

Wolfe moved his position from the stool over to the sofa's adjoining overstuffed chair. "Hmm?" 

"We've got a lady upstairs, that's all. I had to bring Claudia here. You can't go around like that. She's already out for your blood." 

"So you said." 

A moment passed while Bert collected his thoughts, and wished _he_ had an actual bed in his future. It was going on what--six now? He decided against consulting his watch. 

Finally, Nick prompted him out of his silence. "You bring me down here just to implement a dress code?" 

"No," he almost sneered, mocking Nick's tone. "I did not bring you down here just to implement a dress code." His eyes tracked furtively over to the bar, where Pascal was at least pretending to leaf through last weekend's _Chicago Sun-Times_. 

"Hey, uh, Pascal," Bert called to the other man, "Think of a reason you need to be somewhere else." He preferred not to discuss business in public--even if it was only in front of the bartender at the club in which he was part-owner. 

"You know," Pascal began, unruffled by the order, "I think I will go and wait at the door for the doctor." 

"Good idea," agreed Myers, as Pascal grabbed a nearby straight-backed chair, tucked the _Sun-Times_ under his arm, and left them alone. Bert added under his breath to Nick. "Good guy, Pascal. How much you think he knows?" 

Accustomed as he was to Bert's frequent evaluation of those with whom he surrounded himself, Nick shrugged and volunteered his usual, "about what?" reply. And as usual, Bert answered back with an enigmatic shrug of his own. 

The warmth of dull pain that ensued in response to his shrug caused Bert to lean forward where he sat. He tried to overcome the desire to hold his side, and breathed shallowly. "Chloe," he said, and it spat out from his lips more than a little like a curse. 

"You hurt?" Nick leaned toward him, hand out, ready to examine whatever injury his friend had taken on. 

"You touch me--I'll break _your_ rib." 

"Broken rib? When did this happen? How?" 

Bert held out his hand to stave off any renewed attempt Nick might make at diving in to facilitate his own diagnosis. "Doesn't matter, doctor's coming. What I need is for you to take care of Chloe." 

"Who?" 

"Claudia's PA, Chloe, she's coming in to Orly on an early flight--she's been in Budapest scouting locations for Claudia's BBC special." 

"What's a PA?" 

"Personal assistant--I don't know. Do I look like I've had a PA? No? Well then how should I know? Probably brushes her hair for her or something." 

"And _why_ are you sending me to pick her up?" Nick was obviously not following. 

"Because I'm giving you a second chance. A chance to redeem yourself by making Chloe believe that she and Claudia can't get along without you." 

"Any suggestions on how to help bring that about?" 

"Yeah, get a shave and a haircut that costs more than a few francs." He laughed at the look on Nick's face, and grunted, his hand hovering to his side despite his best efforts. "And stop your detective work, Lieutenant. This ain't an inquest, you know, it's a job." 

"So you know no one's after her." 

"What I know," Bert's tone was stern. "Is that Claudia is hiring me to keep any potential threats to her person far away from her. I think we're doing that pretty well. You know as well as I do that plenty of celebrities hire security--it's just the cautious thing to do." 

"But not all celebrities think someone specific is stalking them." 

"Maybe not, but who's saying that she's wrong?" 

Nick pounced on what he thought was a crack in Myers' exegesis. "So you _haven't_ found any evidence to support her claims? Like last night, when no one turned up even though she was convinced that the guy was there." Another thought dawned. "Do we even know it's a guy?" He really thought he had him, and his face displayed the triumph he felt. 

Bert opened his mouth to burst his bubble. "Once again you are not listening to me. What I know is that in two days I fly to Juneau to stay for an indefinite amount of time, and I can't afford to have Claudia calling and begging me to come back, or to take her business elsewhere because you need a refresher course in _How To Win Friends and Influence People_. Look Nick, I'm not asking you to hold an encounter group meeting, here. I'm not asking you to fall in love with her. I'm asking--no, I'm telling you--to be as attentive to her needs as humanly--and as close to within the confines of the law--as possible. So if she calls and tells you that the boogey man is under her bed and she can't sleep, you go up there, you investigate and you re-assure her-- personally, professionally, and in more clothes than you're wearing now." 

"But--" he was prepared to argue, but Bert's hand came up as it had earlier, and cut him off. 

"It's Claudia right now who's paying our bills, keeping this roof over our heads, and meat on the table." He jerked his head back to motion to the foyer. "Even for Pascal out there." 

"Funny," said Nick, finding his _coup de main_, "And all along I thought Amanda was paying our bills with her successful club." He could not often resist dangling the club's profit margin in front of Myers. He knew it aggravated the other man to see his baby, his security firm so far outstripped by the lucrative Sanctuary, though Bert benefited from the profits as well. 

Nick knew enough about what went on in both establishments to deduce that Bert felt a loss of face by the deficit his firm had been running of late in the books. Perhaps that was his first clue to one of the reasons Bert may have agreed to take on Claudia as a client at all. 

"Amanda, yeah, well, speaking of the devil--"

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at Seventh Dimension and The Raven's Nest.  
Feedback is cherished. 


	7. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

Pascal interrupted--you could always depend on him to start speaking while he was still a way off to let you know he was approaching. It was a habit of his Bert could admire, as he hated being sneaked up on. 

"Monsieur Bert, the doctor, he is here." 

Bert and Nick rose to shake hands, but the young black man in street clothes waved them off. He wore a Karl Kani rucksack over one shoulder, as though he were a student on his way to lecture. 

"Stockwell Winston," he introduced himself, one hand on his chest. 

As usual, Nick tried to take control of the situation. "Well, Dr. Stockwell." 

"Win. You can call me Win--and not Doctor, please. It should be clear--I've got no license or permits to practice in France." 

"Well, Win," Bert smoothly ignored the man's unneeded confidence. Licensed practitioners rarely worked on the hush-hush. "How are you with ribs?" Bert unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the bloom of a deeply purple bruise. 

Nick visibly winced at the sight of it, unable to let himself keep from projecting the pain of such a bruise onto on his own ribcage. 

However, the sight of the limo door's earlier impact left their medical guest un-phased. "Coughing any blood, Mr. Myers?" 

"Trying not to cough at all, actually." With Win's arrival Bert finally felt, for the first time since it happened, that he could give the pain in his side carte blanche, stop pretending it wasn't there. 

"I'll take that as a no. Could we manage to get you up on a stool?" Win asked, and Bert gritted his teeth, but managed to straddle one on his own power. 

Win poked and prodded Bert, opened his rucksack to reveal a well-outfitted surgical kit, and asked a few more questions. Casually, as though they were discussing the day's weather, or stock report--something far more remote than a body. 

"I do agree with your diagnosis on number eight, Mr. Myers, but I'd like to take an X-ray--if I could--to be certain about numbers, um, seven and six." 

"What--here?" Bert and Nick asked in chorus. 

Win stuck a hand into the bag and withdrew a wand that looked more like a black light than anything else--the kind counterfeiters used to check for watermarks and holograms. Along with it he also took out a folded posterboard-like screen, that unfolded to be quite large, and he asked Nick to stand behind Myers holding it up as he used the tiny light for a moment, scanning deliberately up and down Bert's side. 

"Well done." He had finished. He detached something from the screen about the size of an 8x10 and pulled a film off of it, like old instant Polaroid film. 

Skeptical of the proceedings thus far, Nick entered into his own ham-handed version of small-talk. The kind of small-talk that had gotten him in to trouble with Claudia earlier because it had sounded so much like interrogation. It still did. "So, if you're not licensed in France--then where?" 

"Cote d'Ivoire," Win answered evenly. "There was some--trouble there." 

"Naturally." Bert answered for Nick, wincing at the cop-like mentality his friend had that simply did not fit into his world--this world. Asking an underground doctor about his past--questions like that had gotten better men (and more discreet men) than Nick Wolfe killed. Bert made a note to remind himself to try and touch base with Nick about such protocol later, and he prayed that Win, here, hadn't been offended by the upright Superman to his left. 

"Well," Win said, holding the film to the light, "you're no stranger, I see, to broken _or_ cracked ribs. It is only the eight after all, just as you said--though I think the nine is bruised enough not to mind some TLC on your part. We'll wrap you and--just get in touch with someone in a few weeks. I'd be glad to take the call, but--whatever." 

He produced a length of ACE-like bandages, and a pillowcase. Which will it be?" he asked. "While I understand the clinical appeal of traditional bandaging, I've found that a good 400-thread count cotton sham is really where it's at in the comfort department." 

Myers, Nick, and Pascal stared at him quizzically. 

"It's easy enough to do, and it'll still be around for the," Win cleared his throat, "next time." He pulled out a tape measure and asked Bert to exhale, which he did. After taking the measurement, he used a curved stitching needle and began to fit the pillowcase to the circumference of Bert's chest. "Only take a moment." 

And it did. The case fit as perfectly as the bandages might have--with all the support needed and none of the tiresome wrapping and winding that Bert would have found it difficult to accomplish in the coming days on his own. 

"Excellent, Win. How much?" Bert preemptively pointed Pascal toward the elevator. He'd have to go up to the office safe to secure the payment. "Will francs do, or do you have another currency preference?" 

"Francs--" Win withdrew a PDA and consulted it for a moment. "Francs this week will do nicely." He smiled and began to pack up. 

"Did you hear the man, de Vergesse? Bring it in francs." 

Pascal closed the grate and gripped the lever as he ascended out of sight. 

Bert cocked his head to Win. "And how could I contact you again?" 

"Pascal knows where to find me." 

"Good enough." 

They shook hands. 

"You know, I haven't been here since--well, a man named Korda was the owner. Nice to know the new proprietress--what's her name? Hasn't changed the place too much." 

"Amanda. Her name's Amanda," said Bert, and inwardly his earlier grimace of pain had returned.

_...to be continued..._

***********  
DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at Seventh Dimension and The Raven's Nest.  
Feedback is cherished. 


	8. 

..._Continued_ **Part I: _molto lento_**

Noticing the renewed grimace playing across his friend's features, Nick stepped closer toward Myers and asked, "How you feeling, buddy?" 

"Fine, fine. Much better, actually," Bert assured him, moving a hand across his now-bandaged mid-section. 

"If it's not any trouble--could you direct me to--?" Win spoke up, wanting directions to the W.C. 

Nick obliged, walking with him over to the entry and pointing him down the hall, beyond the many curtains that had so disoriented Claudia upon her arrival. When Wolfe returned to the bar a moment later, he found Bert pouring himself another drink. 

"Fine," Bert mumbled under his breath. "Everything's just fine." His tone was less convincing aloud than it had been when he had been going over the game plan in his head as a way to focus himself. "Get you to the airport to pick up this Chloe, get myself back upstairs posted in the dressing room for Claudia. An hour, two hours sleep--fine. Just fine" 

"What's this about a dressing room?" Nick asked, his curiosity getting the better of him--he knew Bert had not been speaking for him to hear. 

"Claudia's up in Amanda's apartment." Bert did not add that she had refused to stay any other place in the building he had taken her, nor that she had sallied forth into Amanda's flat uninvited--that was immaterial. 

"In her spare bedroom--right?" Wariness edged Nick's tone. 

"No." Bert did not even give the word a whisper of feeling, a color of shading. 

"Do you honestly think that's a good idea?" 

"I don't know, Nick. Do you think that question deserves an answer?" Bert was tired. He didn't want to argue about Amanda right now or think about Amanda or speculate about Amanda, or Claudia or Chloe or Nick or really anyone or anything but taking a nap. So, in lieu of the nap he was still several flights of stairs, or one jerky elevator ride, away from, he took another drink. While he swallowed he remembered the old days, the days where he was just a "Guy," where no one questioned him or offered opinions, where giving him a broken rib would have met a swift and extreme prejudicial response, where an op in pain was ignored and expected--trusted, really--to suck it up and never became the center of badgering questions like "are you okay?" because if you were standing and holding your weapon steady everyone knew damn well you were okay. He sighed. And days where he could drink a lot more than what he just had without fear of becoming maudlin. 

An unfamiliar and unexpected jingle turned both Bert and Nick in a instant toward the doorway to the saloon, Bert rounded on the intruder first, his gun, from nowhere, already in his hand aimed perfectly for a clean kill, though nothing Nick had heard in the noise could have betrayed the height of the intruder. 

It was Pascal, returned. 

Whether it was the sight of the gun, so menacingly leveled at him or the topic of conversation would never be known, but within that instant the moments-ago jingling contents of the silver tray he had been holding--a carafe of coffee, a plate of pastries, and the doctor's payment--spilled almost artistically onto the marble floor by the doorway. And while they fell, and Bert had the presence of mind to lower his weapon away from the bartender, Pascal stood frozen, his head to one side, his brow furrowed. He did not stoop to pick up the mess of broken cups and dented pastry. 

Bert did not apologize, but instead asked, "when you expect Amanda back?" 

Pascal looked to Nick, but responded. His voice sounded unsure of its own ability. "Three days from now." 

Bert turned back to the bar, holstered his gun, satisfied. 

Nick gave his friend and boss a stern look, shrugged his shoulders mildly to the bartender as if to say, "what can you do where Bert is concerned?" 

Pascal inhaled and spoke. "Mr. Meyers," he began, "you will need to have someone call for a replacement bartender tonight--and I think for the next three nights. I am no longer feeling well." He turned and left. Bert sighed. 

"You could go after him," Nick offered, "after all, his apartments are just downstairs." 

"Kid needs to grow some balls," Bert replied. "Wasn't like that's the first time he ever had a gun on him." He did not add that on those other occasions, of some of which he had been part, Pascal had never seemed to have minded or have held those moments against him. 

"Not sure it's the gun that's got him hanging you out to dry." Nick cast his eyes to the ceiling. 

"What--" Bert sputtered, not believing it, "he'd leave the club in the lurch just because of an upstairs guest?" 

Nick shrugged. 

Bert clambered down off the stool he had been occupying and walked around behind the bar, grabbing the bartender's planner from a shelf beneath the shiny bar's surface. He tossed it to Nick. "Have Gerard--the doorman--give someone else a call to come in, start with Liucia--she makes a hell of a--well, a hell of an anything." 

While Nick was catching the planner, and having his own thoughts about Liucia, Bert was crossing the floor to the mess Pascal had left behind. From where he stood he looked down at it, knowing that bending over to pick it up was going to play havoc on his ribs. He cursed Pascal. _The man was his paid employee for crying out loud! Why should it matter to him that someone else was using Amanda's place for the night? She wasn't even here!_ He gritted him teeth and kneeled down on the marble, reaching, painfully, for Win's francs. "And make sure Gerard knows we're offering twice Pascal's wage for the three nights." 

Nick's face showed him the betrayal Pascal would doubtless have felt upon hearing the news. 

"It's such short notice," Bret pretended to explain, wincing one eye against the next stretch he had to perform to capture the last franc. 

The intra-Sanctuary phone rattled to life on the bar, extension 801. 

"Claudia," Bert cursed, pulling himself up. He swiftly withdrew his own PDA from within his pants pocket so he could give Nick the numbers on Chloe's flight. "Meet Chloe, be charming." 

The phone rang a second time. 

"Find Win--he must've gotten lost. Pay him. Get Gerard to call replacements." 

"And get a shave and a haircut that costs more than a few francs?" Nick added good-naturedly. 

Bert half-smiled. "While you're at it, pick up a new tux--two in fact, you're gonna be attending a lot of performances." 

"If--" Nick tried to interject. 

Third ring. 

"No ifs. Answer the phone, here, tell her I've already left. I'll be there before you hang up. Remember, this is the first day of the rest of your life with Claudia Jardine." Bert turned and laboriously double-timed it toward the elevator, his heart and injured side beating a rhythm as if to remind him that this was--hopefully--to be one of the last days of the rest of _his_ life with Claudia Jardine. 

He was so near exhaustion at this point that the stiff chaise in Amanda's dressing room--the one he had been told he would occupy--had started to seem as exotic and luxurious as a round, heated waterbed, smothered in ruby red satin sheets he had slept on once--not alone--somewhere in a fond memory some years ago. 

**END OF PART I: _molto lento_**  
...to be continued...in  
**PART II: _allegro con anima_**

*********** 

DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc.  
_Thanks_. In addition to this, I have other stories available on-line at [Seventh Dimension][1] and [The Raven's Nest][2] as well as my own site, [The OutBack Fiction Shack][3]. 

   [1]: http://www.seventh-dimension.org
   [2]: http://www.crosswinds.com/~hlraven
   [3]: http://www.royaltoby.com



	9. Part II. Allegro con anima

**II.Allegro con anima**  
_segno_  


Nick Wolfe was asleep--_and why not?_ he had asked himself when he ascended Sanctuary's stairs. He had almost two hours until he had to be at the airport, which left more than enough time for him to catch a few extra Zs. 

He was having a strange enough dream, though--something about Pascal, down in his cellar apartment, plotting a scheme to get back at Bert for giving away Amanda's--the Boss'--bed for the next few nights. He dreamed of Bert down the hall, resting more comfortably than Nick would have expected on a chaise in the elaborate dressing room, posted outside the door of Amanda's--for now Claudia's--bedroom, and Nick dreamed of himself, struggling to create a sign to identify himself to this Chloe, wondering how to spell her name, wondering whether she would be young or old, or hard to charm as he had been instructed. With such dreams for company, his was a fitful nap at best. 

A noise like a ripping explosion tore into his apartment. He sat straight up and grabbed for his gun, resting (as it always did when he wasn't wearing it) in his shoulder holster, hanging over the headboard of his bed. 

There was no time for a response--shouting threats or firing shots, or even getting himself out from under the covers. In moments his apartment was compromised. Invaded. 

Amanda was standing on the threshold of his bedroom, and no matter how many times and in how many different situations Nick had dreamed _this_, it was most certainly no dream now. 

Her eyes flashed fire as they took in the entire contents of his room, and the sword she held with deadly familiarity did not waver. 

"Amandaaaa--" He said it slowly, as though she were a tiger about to spring. "Are you--coming after me with a sword?" 

"Shhh!" she commanded, and he noticed that she had not removed her coat upon having come inside, nor even having come upstairs from the club. 

"You're not supposed to be back for a couple more days--" Nick began conversationally, his voice lowered, but hardly silent as she had instructed. 

He saw Amanda's grip on her sword ease slightly. She had surveyed the room, and apparently decided that whatever was so dangerous as to require bladed weaponry was not present any longer. 

Lifting his covers to look underneath and survey his state of dress, Nick was reminded of Bert's admonishment about propriety when encountering company, but chose to gloss over modesty in light of the fact that Amanda was headed toward a street-facing window, still with sword quite visibly in hand. 

"Ho-ho-hold up there, won't you?" he stuttered, scooting across the room and pulling the blinds shut. 

Oblivious to his presence, Amanda continued to prowl, sword lowered but still in her hand. "Someone's here," she intoned ominously. "I can feel them." 

"Someone--" Nick asked. "Who?" And then it dawned. "Oh--_Some One_, as in there can be only…" 

"Yes," she rolled her eyes, for a moment breaking her intense study. "Why else do you think I broke down your door? Huh? Think I'm that desperate for a glimpse of you in your skivvies?" She glimpsed him in his skivvies. 

"You broke down my door?" _What could she have been thinking?_ Nick went out for a look of his own. The door was indeed broken in. And not the sort of breaking-in he usually pegged Amanda, cat burglar, for. No, this was the kind of break-in that created the noise that startled him awake, the kind that left some of the wood, the doorknob, and deadbolt, still married to the doorframe. This was an urgent, adrenaline-fueled break-in. 

"So you felt that _something_--" he couldn't remember just now what she called it. "And raced up here to rescue me?" He smiled, that cocky, self-satisfied near-smirk that had worked so well on girls at parties in college. 

But Amanda was having none of it, she was still too busy recon-ing every nook and crevice in his apartment. 

"Actually, I went for Pascal first, but he wasn't in his rooms or at the bar--" She recounted the details like a police deposition. She turned to make eye contact with him. "I'm pretty sure they've got him, Nick. Pascal never leaves this time of day. Something's up. I know it." She flicked her neck to the side, as though trying to get some left-over water out of her ears after swimming. "And I can't get this afterthought of a Buzz out of my head." 

Nick's face adjusted slowly to the news that he hadn't been Amanda's first stop. His 'he shoots he scores' grin turned flat on him and with all gravity he reminded Amanda that Sanctuary was Holy Ground. Nothing was supposed to happen here. 

But Holy Ground did little to appease her. She started off down the hallway toward the bathroom and her own flat. "So where's Pascal?" she asked over her shoulder as Nick increased his pace to keep up. 

He lied, not wanting to be the one to break the news about Claudia and her rooms, nor to explain Pascal's rather--he searched for a word--_impassioned_ response to the situation. "Who knows, maybe he got lucky last night." He threw up his hands up to further convey his 'search me' stance. "He'll turn up." 

But he could see she was having none of it, and there would have been more protests to squelch had Amanda not swung the door to her flat open and Myers not burst out, weapon characteristically in hand. 

"Nick," Myers asked, realizing who was with her, his tone too casual for someone holding a gun in a shoot-to-kill manner. "What's your girlfriend doing with a sword?" 

"Dunno, Myers." Nick stepped toward his friend, tried to let his hand rest on the top of Myers' automatic and lower it, but Myers jerked his head in a manner that said touching his sidearm right now wasn't the brightest of ideas. 

Nick retracted his extended hand and retreated behind sarcasm. "Maybe she's practicing for a Ren Fest--her home, her property, she can do what she wants, right?" 

"Damn American," Bert swore, having heard that little personal freedom speech a few too many times for it to either stir or warm the cockles of his Iron Curtain-born heart. 

"What are you doing here, Myers," Amanda asked, taking a step closer to him--and to the gun. 

"Now, Amanda," Nick cautioned, knowing neither of these two was in a position to be pushed by the other. One of the few reasons Amanda and Bert ever got through days spent together was that their weapons were stowed when they were in each others' company. 

"Button up, Wolfe," Myers observed the gaping fly of Nick's boxers with disgust. 

How Bert was able to both size Nick up and never let his eyes stray from Amanda and her sword, Nick would never know. 

"Lower the gun, Myers," Amanda ordered. "I'd tell you to drop it but we don't want it going off accidentally, now do we? Might chip my molding." 

"The sword, Amanda. Quit pointing it at me. I got this thing about dames with knives." 

"C'mon," Amanda purred, "you can tell me who you've got here--I always knew you'd be the one to set me up," she paused, "troll. If there's one thing in the world a girl can't trust," she waited. "It's a business partner." 

Myers' jaw tightened. He did not like to be called untrustworthy. 

"Myers," Nick tried again to interpose himself between the two and get them to step apart. 

The sound of a window being broken through in the room beyond--the master bedroom--effectively did the job for him. 

Myers and Amanda took one last look at each other and in unison high-tailed it toward the noise, Myers in front--just as, Nick did not doubt, Amanda wanted him. 

In the other room, Amanda watched from barely inside the door as Bert climbed through broken glass out onto the back of the building's fire escape. A moment later he helped a very frightened Claudia back through, the heavy gilt phone she had used to break the glass pane in his other hand. 

Nick assumed that now was the time for the tension to diffuse and the introductions and explanations to begin. 

He was wrong. 

Amanda lunged toward the broken window and the pair standing by it. "What the fuh---" she shouted, her sword menacingly at the ready. "She's wearing my clothes!" 

And with the sight of Amanda, immortal, angry as hell, and brandishing a weapon, Claudia Jardine dropped dead into a faint. 

- 

She was still on the floor by the time Nick had also crossed the room. 

"Who the hell is that," Amanda asked Myers, who was trying to decide if he could risk the strength needed to get the unconscious Claudia into bed, _and_ if he had the nerve to try and do so while the bed's rightful owner was still there. 

"That," Nick tried as succinctly as possible to sum up, "is internationally renown concert pianist Claudia Jardine. Bert," Nick narc-ed, "was letting her stay in your flat." 

"Funny," said Amanda, the hot rage dropping out of her voice, into a cooler version of itself as she bent down and grabbed Claudia's chin, turning the still-unconscious woman's face from side to side for a better look. "I thought she was younger." 

_dal segno_

...to be continued...


End file.
